


Clubbed To Death

by tanglelore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Clubbing, Cockblocking, DJ Dave, Humanstuck, M/M, Species Swap, Trollstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 12:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3651162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanglelore/pseuds/tanglelore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eridan is bored and lonely on a Sunday night. The clear solution to this is to go out and dance his problems away. The difficulty is that the DJ is an asshole. Also, a troll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clubbed To Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zunomian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zunomian/gifts).



> Sorry for taking your prompt and scampering off to weird places with it. ^^;;; I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Staring at the wall was no fucking way to spend a mellow Sunday evening, though damned if it didn't feel tempting. Eridan put on his best 'i'm so alone' grimace and considered his status: college was a bust -- his history grades were good, but the poetry minor he'd decided on was ruining his life; his social circle limped along in a state of agonizing undeath; money, at least, was not an issue, as with his trust fund security there was no reason to hold down a job. Overall kind of pathetic with the distinct possibility of graduating to outright loser.

He could spend the night drowning his sorrows in a vast glub of solitary alcohol and tears, and that was a thing he'd certainly done on more than a few nights, or he could try to shake off the lingering depression of having his best friend/damn I wish you were my girl/whoops fucked that right up walk out after a proposed evening of light television viewing and convivial jocularity had turned into confessional city in the worst way.

He poked his phone, hoping to find something to spike his interest. Nothing on FB, just a bunch of aww fuck you fef posting pics of that dude you're apparently seeing so soon after walkin out on me... He closed the app in a hurry, then went ahead and deleted it. It'd just be back next time he synced his phone, but whatever, it was satisfying now. Twitter, blah blah, Kar's throwing a fit about some movie or other again, but hey what -- now that was a prospect. A night of theraputic dancing at a local club.

Clubbing seemed like a reasonable response to the perpetual riddles of his existence. There was something about the idea of popping in a fresh set of earplugs (can't risk ruining his ears so young, though if his pappou was any indication he'd be deaf by sixty anyway), squirming into pants the color of old blood and texture of leather with none of the guilt, and hitting the dancefloor to shake the disease out of his system that really appealed. Sundays were good nights to go out -- not so crowded as to eliminate the necessary space to get his fairly epic groove on, but not so empty as to deny him the joy of watching people watch him. Maybe a little random admiration was what he needed to get his ego back in the right stream. He had an early class he could claim he was rebelling against, and that just made it better. And he could be into goth music. He could be into anything.

He wanted to forget the cold stare she'd given him just before she walked out of his life and into the bedroom of, fuck, what was that loser's name? Who even knew anymore. He was slipping further from reality with every breath and needed something to slam him back into his body.

He decided. He would go. The club opened at nine, and ran until two a.m. It was eight. Just enough time to perfect his eyeliner.

\---

The club was small, set underneath what used to be an autobody shop and was now some kind of hotdog joint. It was theoretically exclusive, but it didn't take much to get a membership, just knowing someone who went and having them vouch for you a couple of times was usually enough. For him, it'd been his older brother. Exclusivity meant that smoking was still a possibility, hence Cronus' intermittent fondness for the place. Eridan paused on his way down the driveway to the metal door, imagining his brother's gravelly sneer:

"Who goes out to a club on their own, boss?"

Idiots who have no friends, that's who.  
Idiots like one Eridan "Frothing Emotional Gigantism" Ampora, that's who.

Well, fuck it. Fuck all of them. He was going to get his groove on, and he was going to look sharp doing it. 

He paused outside, dutifully pulling his membership card and ID out, paid his $3 cover, and went in. It was dim and even though it was still early, and the crowds had not yet descended, the scent of cigarette smoke permeated the building. He unwound his scarf and peered around. One of the bartenders was chatting amiably with someone, and the other looked faintly bored and more than a little forboding, so Eridan wandered out to grab a table next to the dancefloor. The DJ's jagged horns bobbed behind the barbed wire as he cued up something stompy, which was great and all, but there were a limited number of moves that he could work with if that was all the DJ played. He set his coat and scarf on the table, and with territory comfortably marked, headed to the booth to make some requests.

"Hey."

He got no response, so he tried a little louder. The DJ quirked one eyebrow over the rims of his completely ridiculous shades. Eridan stepped closer, and the troll put up his hands and mumbled something that Eridan couldn't even really interpret as language, much less actual communication. He leaned in to speak directly into the DJ's ear, and got a closed fist to the sternum and a stream of irritated babble.

"You're intruding on my bubble, okay. I know I'm some hot shit back here, totally irresistable in every way with a hella fine ass that you just want to mack all over because you're probably trollkinked, but I also don't really, uh, swing interspecies. So thanks for the flattery, but fuck directly off. Or whatever."

\--

Dhaeve was fucking pissed. Never failed, every goddamn time he guested at this place, some shambling wreck of a human with a troll fetish wanted to put their hands all over his 'smooth ashen hide', as one of the more recent assailants had dubbed it. Idiots with a thing for horns and no respect for the intelligent being wearing them. This guy was a special case, douche glasses and a douche scarf and all the entitlement in the world clear in his posture. Even if all he wanted was to request a song, Dhaeve was not inclined to comply. He hated the tasteless little swirl of dyed hair that flopped around on this idiot's forehead like a piece of goldfish shit. He hated his perfectly fitted pants. He hated the catty sweep of his eyeliner and perfectly applied black lipstick. 

He quickly looked away -- that was way too much hate for only having just met the guy. He probably didn't even deserve it. Oh, look, he was still talking.

"--just wanted to ask you to play, I don't know, some Depeche Mode or somethin' after this set? Something I can dance to, you know? I like, uh, Love Will Tear Us Apart, too."

And in true asshole fashion, the guy started dancing around the DJ booth.

"Get the fuck out of my space, grubface. I'll play you something."

Dhaeve shoved him out and shut the gate, pointedly placing the requests clipboard on the outside. 

"Yeah, I'll play you something you can dance to, all right. Heh."

\--

Eridan was both flustered and mollified by the answer the pointlessly attractive DJ had given him, and decided it was time to start drowning his sorrows in a bit of alcohol. Not enough to get wasted, no way, just enough that he didn't care who was watching him. The club was starting to fill, and there was a line forming at the bar. He kept his cool despite the side-eyes he kept getting from the regulars. He surreptitiously checked his breath, his fly, and his hair. No, nothing wrong. Maybe they were just too distracted by his superlative attractiveness to bother talking to him. He preened a little, just because, then realized that the enormous troll in front of him had gotten his drink and the bartender was waiting for him to order.

"I'll have a, uh, something sweet. But a double."

The bartender snorted and mixed him something purplish and almost-but-not-quite viscous. It made him cough at the first sip.

"Word of advice, kid? ...Leave Dhaeve alone when he's in the booth. You can hit on him later, during breaks or whatever, but now is a really bad time."

Eridan drew himself to his full, not particularly impressive height. 

"I was just askin' him to play me a song. I didn't even ask him to play it immediately, I even said it could be after his current set."

"Yeah, right. It'll be $12 for that Black Orchid, kid."

Eridan huffed, but paid up and went back to his table. As he sat, the opening chords of Love Will Tear Us Apart started. He grinned, set his drink down, and moved to the dance floor. There was something a little weird, though -- instead of the familiar sepulchural tones of Ian Curtis, there was a woman rapping about getting your freak on. What?

He stopped, feeling like an idiot, but unable to continue without something familiar to get his party started. He glared at the DJ, who ignored him. 

\--

"Score one for the DJ," Dhaeve muttered, watching the asshole sulk back to his seat to nurse his drink. He could feel him glaring daggers in his direction and felt a wisp of powertrip settle over him.

Time to play it nice, get the rest of the crowd settled in. This guy was too easy to rile. Nights like this were pretty rad -- not too many people clamoring for his attention, but enough to satisfy his sense of self-importance. He muttered a few relevant song lyrics:

"I got believers...believing me~"

After that it was easy. He kept the crowd wrapped up in the music, but kept an eye on the new guy he'd mentally dubbed "Grubwad", and every time he was getting too into his own personal groove, he'd play something that absolutely ruined it for him. Being mildly psychic helped a little, at least in knowing for sure how his target was reacting, but the guy showed his feelings in sixty-point typeface all over his body. It was ultra-satisfying to watch his frustration and anger grow, watch his body language get more stilted and fussy.

Was he really grooving to Depeche Mode? The next song kicked off with "Oh. My. God. Becky, _look at her butt..._ ". "Oh My Goth" was in the playlist, and the lyrical strains of Nine Inch Nails vs. Carlie Jepsen, a hyper-popular blueblood he generally hated, but the mashup was _brilliant_ in the most ironic way.

Dhaeve couldn't deny that Grubwad had some decent moves and, yeah, he was pretty okay to look at for a human, gender presentation almost trollish in nature except for the incredible stink of masculine ego. It was telling that the rest of the dance floor loved his mixes. One cute teal kept winking at him in a way that he was pretty sure implied some concupiescent interest.

Then things started going wrong -- Grubwad started taking what he threw at him and rolling with it. Dhaeve followed Everyday is Halloween with Auslanderween and Grubwad danced right through both songs, mouthing along with Pop Will Eat Itself like he knew the original goddamn song (there was no possible way that was true). He started doing popular dances to the music, dances that didn't work within the context _at all_. Dhaeve started feeling a little rage working into his set. 

He shrugged, gave up, and flipped on a Rage Against The Machine mashup as the last song before his break, realizing slightly too late that maybe No To The Gay Bar might send the wrong idea. He stalked towards the bar to get a drink. Grubwad stayed on the floor until the next track started, then sauntered sleekly toward him, cheeks bright with alcohol and exhilaration. Dhaeve glowered at him from under his glasses and tilted his head in an invitation to follow to the alley. 

The bartender snorted, and Dhaeve gave him a menacing look. He knew he had an "I told you so" coming to him, but he really, really didn't want to hear it just yet.  
\--

Eridan felt a little triumph flit through him. He'd clearly managed to get the DJ's, Dhaeve's, attention, which while it had not been his goal at the beginning of the evening, had become a necessity after everything that asshole had been doing to ruin his glorious night of theraputic dancing.

"So, what's your problem, Dhaeve? What's your beef with a guy you don't even fuckin' know? My name, by the way, is Eridan. Nice to meet you."

The troll glowered at him, giving him a thorough up and down. 

"I don't give a fuck what your name is. And what's _not_ to have a problem with? You're clearly a flaming asshole poured into well-fitting pleather pants, with huge entitlement issues and a chip on your shoulder as big as your fucking ego. You came into my booth and started handling me and then expected me to play you what you wanted, so fuck you very much, okay?"

Eridan smoothed his hands over his admirably plush rump. 

"Yeah, they do fit pretty good."

"Oh my fucking god." Dhaeve threw his hands in the air and brought them down on Eridan's shoulders. "Do. You. Even. Listen. To. Yourself? Do you have a screaming iota of awareness of your uh."

He'd been shaking Eridan, less and less gently with each word, culminating with pressing him against the slightly damp brick. Sudden awareness of the glee rising in the human's face, combined with a rush of warmth to his nook, made Dhaeve release him immediately and fold his palm across his face. 

"Fuck. Me. Fuck my life."

"You know, I didn't think I was into trolls, _despite_ what you were accusin' me of earlier, but that actually sounds like a kinda great idea. I don't live that far from here, you know..."

"Hell and also no. Furthermore, that's the worst idea you could ever have spit out of the gaping chasm you call a mouth. I don't what are you doing. What the fuck are you _doing_?"

Eridan was handling his horns. Bravery bolstered by alcohol, with a soupçon of curiosity, and a large quantity of aggressive foolishness, he had one hand on the point of Dhaeve's left horn and the other curling around the base of the right. Dhaeve sagged over him, rage kindling his vague arousal into a full-fledged hatelust. This guy was too stupid (hot) to live. 

Just then the bouncer poked his nose out of the door. 

"Dhaeve, man, you're starting to leak. Some guy just punched someone for no reason, first with his fist and then with his mouth. You gotta chill, man. You can take it home later, but you got another set to make it through first."

Dhaeve realized that they were both shivering, despite the lack of chill in the air. He removed Eridan's hands from his horns with a tiny involuntary growl and backed away.

"Yeah, okay. So."

Eridan looked up at him, and in the dim light, the shape of his throat as he swallowed made Dhaeve want to bite it. 

"So."

"Can we maybe continue this um, later?" Eridan's voice shook just a little. "I think you're horrible, but also, uh."

"You're a human and also I'm pretty sure completely awful, and I'm not going to risk my job right now, but yeah. Later."

He backed away slowly, not turning away until he was at the door.

"Leave me your info and I'll call you. Maybe not tonight, but soon."

Eridan nodded.

\--

He stood in the alley for several minutes, trying to catch his breath and convince his dick to chill the fuck out. He wasn't sure what that had been all about, but it had surely been one of the hottest things he'd ever had happen to him. 

He went in, studiously avoiding looking at where Dhaeve was standing. His body felt taut and achy, and he gathered his coat and scarf in a daze. He pulled one of his kitschy little business cards out of his cardcase and pushed it gingerly under the barbed wire barrier towards Dhaeve, who snagged it and stuffed it into his back pocket.

Then Eridan fled. He made it home, too dizzy to comprehend exactly how, and all but collapsed into the safety of his apartment. He'd think about what happened later. All that really mattered was that Fef had been abruptly rendered inconsequential (for the moment, a whisper at the back of his head snickered. for the moment) in the face of Dhaeve's ...everything.

He lay there trying to decide if he wanted to cry or jerk off until his phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number, and it just read:

"sup"

Eridan rolled over and laughed until he cried, then began a response.

**Author's Note:**

> I substituted an interest in goth music of the Eighties and Nineties for poetry. ;) 
> 
> A few songs mentioned:  
> Missy Elliot vs Joy Division - Love Will Freak Us  
> David Bowie - DJ  
> Sir Mix-A-Lot - Baby Got Back  
> pomDeter - Call Me A Hole (Carly Rae Jepsen vs NIN) (yes, I made her a troll in this universe)  
> Ministry - Everyday is Halloween  
> "This Is Halloween" vs Ich bin ein Auslander (Pop Will Eat Itself) - Auslanderween  
> Rage Against The Machine vs Electric Six - No To The Gay Bar


End file.
